


Treasures

by Mellorine, SiderealV



Series: Gestalt [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4547907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellorine/pseuds/Mellorine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiderealV/pseuds/SiderealV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or as Prowl likes to call them, "stacks and stacks of useless junk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prowl glared at the “DO NOT ENTER” sign adorning Scavenger’s room. He could feel a processor-ache building already. Why the Constructicon felt the need to completely reorganize his room every few months, he would never understand.

Sometimes he wished his processor wasn’t so damn meticulous.

As it was now, things were bearable. He could go into that junkyard Scavenger called a room, and know precisely where everything was. Every so often, a little knick-knack or two would wind up a shelf or two over, or across the room, but as soon as Prowl could pin where it had moved to, things would be fine.

But now, the next time he walked in there, his tac-net would be bombarded with alerts that there were approximately 8,953 objects within 30-meters of his location, of near-infinite shapes and sizes, and all in the midst of a maddening cacophony of light, sound, and motion.

All of which would give him a splitting processor ache that would linger for hours (if he was lucky) and preclude any, *ahem*, _activities_ he might have been otherwise looking forward to.

Prowl gave the door one last glare and turned back to his datapad. He’d deal with it later.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, the sign was gone and the incredibly distracting hum of Scavenger going about his cleaning blitz had faded to its normal, only mildly distracting hum.

He eyed the door out of the corner of his optic. He’d have to go in there sooner or later. Well, technically, he didn’t _have_ to, but sometimes he didn’t feel like trekking all the way back to his own apartment, which left him with the non-choice of Scavenger’s room or someone else’s. Or the couch, which had definitely not been made with his kibble in mind. And if he had to go in there sooner or later, it may as well be sooner, while the Constructicons were out on a job and Prowl had nothing more pressing to do.

This entire situation could have been avoided if Scavenger, at the very least, had the decency to pick a way he liked his room and keep it that way. Not that the Constructicon would ever be that considerate.

Grumbling, he walked over to the door and pushed it open, optics offlined. Hopefully Scavenger had at least kept the berth in the same --. There. He sat down on the edge and steeled himself. Deep vent in, deep vent out.

His optics onlined and his tac-nat blared into action, alerting him that:

>>items:categorized:6396

>>items:uncategorized:3145

>>category:unknown:ERROR:reroute

>>category:other

>>danger level:unknown:ERROR:DANGER:UNKNOWN:ERROR

The processor-ache didn’t so much build as slam into Prowl’s helm with the force of a gunshot. His optics flared, and he tightened his servos into fists, the metal creaking with stress. He forced his optics to stay online and looked around.

Right there, on the top shelf next to the berth: Scavenger’s ridiculous collection of “lava” lamps. Not containing lava at all. A new lamp had joined the pack. Blue and red. Same size as the others. Same composition.

Eleven items down, 9,530 to go.

Across from where he sat was that _stupid_ tchotchke he’d bought on a whim and foolishly allowed Scavenger to take. Ridiculously gaudy, it had obviously been given pride of place in Scavenger’s new interior design vision. Now Prowl would have to stare right at it whenever he came over. Wonderful.

>>color:primary:black:586

>>color:primary:white:741

>>color:primary:gray:1385

>>color:primary:infrared:368

>>color:primary:red:575

>>color:primary:orange:548

>>color:primary:yellow:1736

......

The light caught the edges of objects, sending a dazzle of color sparkling across the room. Leave it to Scavenger to prefer the visually garish as opposed to anything more understated or, Primus forbid, elegant.

More movement caught his optic with every passing moment. The light movement of wind chimes swaying in the ventilation. The hands of an analog chronometer winding around its face. Those damn lava lamps. The mesmerizing spin of an alien kaleidoscope.

Prowl groaned and sank his face into his servos. If he didn’t know it would send Scavenger into a spiral of self-pity, he’d throw down an ultimatum: the room or him. There was no way this was worth it. If Scavenger wanted to spend time together, they’d do it at Prowl’s from now on.

Except they wouldn’t. One thing would lead to another, and a trip to the bar would lead to returning back home to continue the fun, which would lead to them tripping into the berth together, which would lead to Prowl regretting everything forever. A vicious cycle, to be sure, and much as Prowl wished he could trust himself not to be such an idiot, with a few drinks in him he was a master at convincing anyone and everyone, including himself, that he knew exactly what he was doing.

The last time such a night had occurred, he’d somehow managed a blissful ten minutes before his processor got with the program and turned him into a glassy-opticked mess. And Scavenger hadn’t even noticed. The _aft_.

So it was either this, or that, and at the moment he honestly wasn’t sure which he’d prefer -- delayed gratification or delayed pain.

At least the processor-ache had subsided somewhat, with his slow but sure categorization of the room continuing apace. That was what finally settled it for him; if he left now and came back to finish later, he’d more or less be starting from scratch. With the worst of it behind him it would be at least slightly less painful from here on.

He raised his helm and hazarded another scan of the room. The processor-ache pulsed behind his optics, still persistent but noticeably lessened. Or maybe he’d just acclimatized to it. He’d take either at this point. It throbbed in time with the clicking of the chronometer just above the berth, some giant monstrosity Scavenger had found during a demolition. Why someone would throw out such a treasure, Prowl was sure he had no idea.

>>decibel_level:37

Was it just him, or was the noise level higher than it had been the last time he’d been here? He trained his audial sensors on each section of the room in turn, intent on finding the culprit. There. A tiny orrery, clearly made for creatures smaller than the average Cybertronian, if the alien planets spinning around a red sun weren’t enough of a clue. He walked over and switched it off. The planets stuttered to a halt, and the hum of its machinery faded. Much better.

Things were finally reaching a semblance of order, if such a word could ever be used to describe Scavenger’s horde. The collection of glass bobble-heads was nowhere near either the collection of metal bobble-heads or the collection of plastic bobble-heads, but it was one shelf down from the jar of multi-colored glass beads, and right next to that horrible plastic _thing_ Prowl regretted every day of his life. Meanwhile, the plastic bobble-heads were next to a tiny toy Earth police car, which was visible directly through the hole of neon donut sign.

The bumper stickers from Earth were plastered on a CAT advertisement billboard (“ _FUCK THE POLICE_ ” messily covered by “ _WWFSMD_ ”) which hung above the shelf holding all the keychains, holographic postcards and other knick-knacks telling everyone to “ _Visit Torkulon_ ” and “ _What Happens on Monacus Stays on Monacus_.” The tiniest non-sentient mechanical songbird Prowl had ever seen hopped from perch to perch in its tiny cage right next to the diorama of a Eurythmic harmonyranch, which was in turn next to something with entirely too many teeth embedded in a block of clear resin.

Festival lights wound around the wall above the berth, framing a slightly worn pinup calendar of racer frames turned to the right month, but out of date by a few centuries.

There were boxes of gemstones, boxes of spare parts and wires for Primus only knew what purpose, and boxes of rocks that Prowl could only assume had been picked up because “they looked nice.” A limited edition Kremzeek! juice box collection that must have been started back before the war even began. A small pile of Autobot and Decepticon insignias, some of which had suspicious stains.

A hologram portrait of the Constructicons, Scrapper holding Scavenger in a headlock.

A conspicuously empty space on the table next to the berth, just the right size for a datapad.

A star-patterned bitlet blanket and warming rock tucked safely away under the berth.

Prowl checked the ugly chronometer hanging above him. It had only taken three hours this time. Either he was getting better at this or, perish the thought, Scavenger had less junk these days. He shuffled back on the berth until his doorwings rested on the custom pillow that had mysteriously appeared there a while back and drew out a datapad. Now that his processor-ache was only slightly noticeable, he figured he may as well get some reading in. He deserved a break, after all.

Hours passed, and the almost peace and quiet was broken by the Constructicons barging into the barracks. Prowl sighed and heaved himself up off the berth. So much for a quiet night in, although he wasn’t sure why he expected anything else. He opened the door to hear Long Haul loudly proclaiming his intent to “drink myself stupid.”

“So you’ll be having mid-grade then,” Prowl said.

“Prowl!” Scavenger clunked over to him while Long Haul stood there, confused. “You’re here! Wait, why are you here?”

Prowl gave him a look. What, he wasn’t welcome in the Constructicon barracks unless one of them was here to supervise? Don’t be stupid. “I had some free time.” Free time for what, Scavenger didn’t need to know.

“Cool.” Scavenger looked unreasonable happy about such a simple thing. “You wanna see my room? I redecorated a bit.”

And spend the next few hours listening to Scavenger tell him where he got each and every one of his treasures? Not really.

He shrugged. “Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tacnet with the power to calculate 800 moving objects and compute their direction of travel in 0.5 seconds can sometimes have unexpected side benefits.

Prowl was visiting for the weekend, ("Only because of the traffic.") more or less camped out in Scavenger's room, working on his datapad. Why he hadn't opted to just stay at his office if he was going to spend all weekend working, Scavenger had no idea, but he wasn't about to tempt fate by asking.

Instead, he puttered around his room, trying to figure out where to put a glass bobble he'd picked up at the constructicon site, trying even harder to ignore the low-key annoyance coming from Prowl's end of the bond. He'd regret that later, he was sure, but he  _needed_ to find the perfect place for this or everything would be wrong. He  could put it next to the other glass things, but it was so tiny it'd be overshadowed by everything else. He could put it with the other construction site stuff, but it was blue, so maybe it should go next to the blue stuff? Or he could put it with --

"Put it over there."

Scavenger couldn't just toss things around randomly, that would be the worst, he needed to decide where! But he knew that tone. And he might be able to get away with ignoring the annoyance, but if he wanted any shot of cashing in on his good traffic fortune...

Well, he could just... He could deal with it there for one night, and then fix it in the morning once Prowl was gone.

He set it down in the spot and stepped back, eyeing it.

_Huh._ Well that was kind of...perfect. Reflexively, he murmured a quick thanks, not really expecting any kind of response. It was Prowl, after all.

"Hn." 


End file.
